Final Act by Dianne Yetman Read Free Book Online Page B

go Henry, if not for your sake, for Jeffrey’s.  And for the sake of the actors and crew.  If you don’t take the position, it means we will have to refund season tickets, we’ll be in the red and everyone could be out of a job.”
    Henry hesitated for ten seconds, sighed, and then accepted.  Graciously.  Now he had to work out the logistics.  He wanted Eleanor on board as Producer.  Given her years of experience in the theatre business, it wouldn’t take long for him to teach her the ropes.  It wouldn’t cause any flack among the rest of the cast either.  Eleanor’s manner prohibited jealousy. 
    He hoped he could convince Andrew to stay on as Stage Manager.  The man could multi-task and knew what he was doing.  He needed him.  It would take careful coaxing. 
    Brenda Parsons was a different matter.  Loud, aggressive, talented, and when she thought it was required, an excellent people pleaser but he didn’t trust her.  She had been schooled by Jeffrey; he was her mentor. And he had been more than delighted to have a protégé. 
    N o request from Jeffrey had been too demeaning for her.   She swept the stage floors, pinned up hems, removed spots from the actors clothing, and did take out food runs. The rest of the time she followed Jeffrey around the theatre, scribbling like mad in the little notebook she carried.  Henry thought she was a bit long in the tooth for a protégé but knew she was more valuable on the roster than off.  He decided to make her assistant stage manager.  Andrew can handle her.   
    As much as Henry despised Jeffrey, he never discounted his talent.  His ability to encourage, motivate, inspire and coax the best performance out of a complex, multi-talented team of actors had been astounding. He’d be a t ough act to follow.   But he would succeed.  He had to.  He heard a sound of approaching footsteps.  He slipped out of the dressing room before anyone saw him.   
    ***

    Roger entered the deceased Director’s office followed closely by Charlotte Beauvoir.  His eyes swept around the room.  H e was s urprised at its beauty.  It was pristine, immaculate, furniture well placed.  He sat in the executive chair that was so deeply cushioned a small child could hide in its folds.
    I feel like Captain Kirk taking the command seat.
    The room bore no traces of the feminine.  There was a faint aroma of pipe and cigar smoke. The dark mahogany bookcase was filled with leather bound volumes on the history of the Canadian and American theatre.
    With a nod, he directed Charlotte to the plush twin of the executive chair facing the cherry wood desk.  He ignored the loud slight protest of the chair’s springs as she seated herself.
    Wonder if Scotty would be able to beam her up? 
    He could hear his mother’s voice, it sounded like it was coming from behind his chair.  Lose the fat jokes, Roger, and grow up.
    He smiled at Charlotte.
    She has beautiful ice blue eyes.  Damn, are those whiskey fumes I smell?  
    Trying to reduce her stress level, he took the time to give her extra reassurances before beginning the questioning. 
    “Please try to relax as much as you can, Ms. Beauvoir, it’s not an interrogation, more like a friendly chat.”
    “Thank you, I’m relieved to hear it.  It’s all little overwhelming, not to mention intimidating.  Please call me Charlotte, Sergeant.  It’s more in keeping with the friendly chat, don’t you think?”
    “ Yes, I suppose so. Y our bio in the brochure is impressive. You’ve been involved with the theatre for quite some time.  How long were you acquainted with the victim, Jeffrey Stone?”
    “For 3 years, or so, whenever he joined the company, can’t remember exactly .”
    She looked around the room, a frown creasing her forehead.
    He heard a whooshing sound.  T he woman was sinking, sinking fast into the quilted layers of fabric.  Giving her time to re-position herself, he opened the manila file folder , busied himself shuffl